Rumors Resurface

The festival's memory lingered in the compound like the soft glow of embers after a fire—a reminder that hope could still burn bright despite every lurking threat. Survivors woke with a hint more optimism than usual, their conversations echoing with talk of the successful harvest, the new farmland outpost, and the fleeting moments of unity they had shared. Even Tamsin's faction seemed less on edge—though no one expected her suspicion to vanish overnight.

The chill of early morning clung to the courtyard, where watchers rotated out after the long night shift. Leila observed the changing of the guard with weary gratitude, offering a subdued smile to the bleary-eyed men and women who'd spent hours scanning the horizon from the ramparts. She knew how easily the undead—or raiders—could descend upon them if vigilance ever slipped.

She turned to find Darren crossing the courtyard, stifling a yawn. He caught her eye and shook his head with a grimace. "Nothing out of the ordinary last night—just the usual patrol routes." He hesitated, glancing toward the farmland's direction. "Still, it's quiet out there. Always makes me nervous."

Leila lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. "Quiet can be good. Or it can be the calm before the storm. Either way, we keep watch." Her tone was guarded. The old fear rarely let her rest—fear that infiltration might already be in motion, or that Jace's band might appear the moment they relaxed. Even after the successful harvest, she couldn't forget how betrayal had once destroyed her.

They parted ways near the orchard gate, where orchard workers busied themselves gathering fallen fruit. Harriet's group—still under watch but increasingly accepted—chipped in with routine tasks, a quiet display of cooperation. Tamsin observed them from a distance, arms crossed but expression less severe than usual. Baby steps, Leila reminded herself, moving on to review the farmland's progress.

By midday, a small commotion stirred at the main gate—a lone scavenger approached, limping slightly, clothes coated in dust and grime from long travels. The watchmen signaled for Leila, who hastened to the gate with Darren and Mark at her side. The scavenger—a wiry man in his early thirties—supported himself with a makeshift walking stick, his eyes darting between the armed guards. He carried a beaten rucksack slung over one shoulder and raised his free hand in a sign of peace.

"I'm not looking for trouble," he said, voice rasping from thirst or exhaustion. "Just passing through, hoping to trade if you've got anything to spare. Food, maybe."

Leila exchanged a glance with Darren. Their standard protocol with lone scavengers was to assess them carefully, watch for any hint of infiltration. Yet the man's posture radiated weariness, not subterfuge. "We can offer a meal in exchange for information," Leila said, voice firm but not unkind. "Ration lines are tight, so no big handouts. You travel alone?"

The scavenger nodded. "Name's Rowan. My group was scattered by raiders a month back. I've been wandering—some enclaves let me pass, others tried to rob me." He shot a guarded look at the watchers. "I heard rumor this settlement had a handle on farmland."

Leila's gut twisted. Word about our farmland is spreading? That quickly? She forced a measured response. "We're managing. Step inside, we'll talk. But no sudden moves." She gestured for him to follow, watchers flanking him.

They led Rowan to a small corner of the courtyard, offering him a battered stool. Harriet, lurking nearby, brought a cup of water, prompting a suspicious glare from Tamsin. But Rowan drank greedily, relief softening his tense features.

"So," Darren began, crossing his arms. "What news do you carry?"

Rowan wiped his mouth. "Not sure if it's news you want to hear, but… Jace is out there, building strength again." He hesitated, scanning their faces. "Word is he's holed up in some ruins further east, near the old industrial parks. People say they were hammered by undead months back, but Jace's band is clearing them. Ellie's rumored to be recruiting skilled fighters from smaller enclaves that can't defend themselves."

Leila's blood ran cold. The mention of Jace's name, Ellie's cunning, shot her mind back to the day she'd died in her first timeline, the anguish of that betrayal. She swallowed, forcing composure. "How reliable is this rumor?"

Rowan shrugged. "People talk. I heard it from a man who escaped their clutches. Said he saw dozens of new recruits training in the rubble, forging alliances. They pillage smaller camps for supplies, force survivors to join or… worse."

A heavy silence settled. Tamsin approached, face paling but posture bristling. "So they're growing again. We've suspected it, but hearing it confirmed—"

Mark let out a slow, measured exhale. "Well, that's that, then. They're not idle. And if they come for us…" He didn't finish, but the implication was clear.

Leila's stomach churned. "What else did you hear?" she asked Rowan, voice taut. "Any mention of infiltration? Or sabotage?"

Rowan shook his head. "Not specifically. But Jace's band thrives on cunning. Don't be shocked if they have eyes and ears inside bigger settlements— it's their style to strike from within."

Kai appeared at Leila's side, wearing the same stoic calm she found reassuring. He studied Rowan, then turned to her. "We'll stay vigilant. This doesn't change our day-to-day, but it confirms Jace isn't dormant."

Leila nodded, her heart pounding. "Right." She signaled to Harriet, who had lingered uncertainly. "Get him some stew, if we have any leftover from the farmland yield. We'll talk trade after he's rested." Harriet inclined her head, disappearing into the orchard gate area to fetch food.

Tamsin's faction hovered, eyes flicking suspiciously from Rowan to Harriet's retreating back. The once-lifted mood after the festival sagged, replaced by the old, familiar dread of Jace's unstoppable resourcefulness. The orchard workers who overheard paled, quietly exchanging worried glances. Even Fiona, standing at the orchard fence, looked stricken.

Leila motioned for watchers to keep Rowan under guard. He slumped on the stool, relieved to have a brief respite, ignorant or uncaring that Tamsin's watchers studied him like a hawk. As Harriet returned with a bowl of thin stew, Leila stepped away, letting them handle the immediate trade. Her mind buzzed with new anxieties.

The orchard rows beckoned her, promising a moment's solitude away from the swirling tension in the courtyard. She walked down a narrow path lined with battered fruit trees, the ground littered with fallen leaves that rustled underfoot. The harvest festival's memories—music, fleeting laughter, a near dance with Kai—collided with the brutal reality of Jace's band expanding. So much for the illusion of peace, she thought bitterly.

She paused near an old apple tree, leaning against its trunk. Its bark was rough under her palm, comforting in its tangibility. She closed her eyes, inhaling the orchard's crisp scent. What if infiltration is still happening? What if Jace's next assault is bigger than we can handle?